


Floodrains

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, F/F, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:52:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen has kept a cat since she was very young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floodrains

**Author's Note:**

> Another little thing written during-but-not-for pthon '13. This one's because samyazaz said "mythology" and my mind immediately jumped to -- well, you'll see.

Gwen has kept a cat since she was very young, though it's misleading to say it like that: it's less that she has kept the cat, and more that the cat has kept _her_ , followed her from her father's house and the house of a dead husband to her quiet room above the apothecary. It wears a golden collar—it had come to her like that; the collar has always been the most expensive thing in Gwen's home—and though the collar signifies nothing like ownership, the cat is hers. It stretches in the narrow window while Gwen blends ointments and perfumes, cleaning the dust from its dark fur. When Gwen ventures into the clamoring market for fresh herbs, the cat follows like a shadow at her feet, unseen by every shouting merchant with a broom and yet never more than a pace away. The cat is a calming presence in the way the last black wind before a desert-brought storm is a comfort: dangerous, reassuring only in its certainty. 

Gwen leans over the cat to peer out into the world. The alley is narrow and choked with shimmering heat, the brick walls of the houses faded from the long dry season; those who have braved the cruel midday sun have cloth held across their faces to save themselves from the dust. When she pulls her head back in, she discovers the cat has moved to the bowl of fruit she'd bought that morning, nibbling delicately on a fig it holds with one steady claw. 

“I bought those specially,” Gwen objects. “The rains will start soon; you should be more patient.” 

The cat ignores her. It ignores most things, unless threatened. Gwen has seen it in a fight, all lethal speed and outstretched claws, screaming a battle cry while it slashed with merciless focus. She has cleaned blood from its fur on countless occasions, but the cat has never, as far as she can tell, sustained any sort of injury—in a world of tattered alley cats and one-eared fighters, her cat remains lean and sleek and whole. 

She used to question it, but those questions dried up long ago. 

Satisfied with the fig, the cat leaves half of it behind on the wooden table, and comes purring over to Gwen's lap, pushing its head into her hand for a scratch. It kneads at her thighs, but its claws never prick her skin, and Gwen relaxes into the quiet moment, her head propped on one hand as she strokes her fingers down the silky spine of her oldest friend. 

Tomorrow she will shake out her linen wall-hangings and the reed mats on her floor; she will wipe down the whitewashed walls of her home and anoint herself in the perfume she has been saving for half a year. Her clothing is waiting for her, pressed and new and gleaming, and she's found fresh leather to repair her sandals. She will walk through the market to the temple in the middle of the city, and rest in the grove within its walls before approaching the shrine; there, in the green and shady space, surrounded by waters tamed from the Nile, she will leave her small sacrifice to the goddess under the watchful eyes of priestesses. She will look upon the likeness of the goddess, all feline grace and human charm, but she will not linger. She knows now that the true offering comes only with the rains.

~

The cat is restless that evening, pacing the floor long after Gwen has barred the door and trimmed the lamp. Its tail stands up in an angry brush, hairs standing on end, and it pauses from time to time to hiss at the air and blink inscrutable pale eyes at her. Gwen watches from her cot, her own heart jumping irritably under the expectant quiet of the night—she understands the cat's restlessness, understands why it stalks the shadows here instead of slipping out to roam the streets and fight and yowl until frustration breaks—the heat is still and thick and heavy, a weight which will not shift away, and they are waiting.

Soon now, very soon, the rains will come and bring them both relief.

~

The storm is a roar in the air, setting it to trembling as if caught in the wet of a lion's mouth, but Gwen is heedless of the noise and the wet seeping in around the window seams; she has no eyes to see the darkness in the midday air or the leak in the far corner. Her every sense is wrapped in Morgana: in the fall of dark hair over breasts as pale as the alabaster of the temple statues, in pale angular eyes, in the hiss of Morgana's breath between her teeth when Gwen brushes some secret spot. Morgana's skin is aflame, slippery against her, and the heat passed back and forth between their bodies makes Gwen struggle for breath. It had come on them suddenly this year, caught them almost by surprise despite the long agony of waiting. Gwen had been out at market—she had lost sight of the cat and had been convincing herself not to panic—when the first warning drops fell. She'd run the whole way home, hair coming loose, braids whipping along behind her as she used her basket to push through the crowded streets, and still she'd nearly been caught out in the deluge: the clouds had broken as she reached her door, leaving her soaked and trembling, though not from any chill.

Morgana had been waiting.

Now Gwen's clothes are the only impediment between them, white linen sticking to every angle of her body. Morgana wears nothing but a heavy golden necklace fastened tight against her throat; the pendant brushes her chin when she pushes Gwen to the bed and presses her open mouth against the swell of Gwen's breast, over the dark nipple which shows so clearly through the fabric. Gwen has her hands in the mess of Morgana's hair, tangling it further with restless movements, but it is not enough, never enough, and when Morgana dances clever fingers up along the inside of Gwen's knees, she grabs her hem instead, struggling to free herself, to feel the whole delirious expanse of Morgana's body against her own.

It is a fight to get the linen off, and when Morgana has thrown it to the floor she comes for Gwen with blazing eyes and hungry lips, pinning her by the wrists, the hips, the heart. She takes whatever Gwen holds out in offering—and Gwen offers everything, all she has, without resistance. There is no place for hesitance, not between the two of them, not after so long spent at each other's sides. The thunder in the air is but a pale echo of the fury in the private storm they create. 

“I've waited so long,” Morgana growls, voice as dark as honeyed dates. “One day only, and every year is longer than the last— _Gwen_.”

“I need you,” Gwen says, caught in the desperate space between pleading and commands. “I need—”

Morgana does not let her finish; she scrapes sharp teeth down the divot of Gwen's collarbone, laves her tongue over the valley between Gwen's breasts. Gwen holds her there, crying out when Morgana favors her with a kiss, lips closing fast around her nipple; she spreads her legs to wrap one more securely around Morgana, opening further to the delicate demands of Morgana's fingers. 

“Morgana— _ah_!” 

Morgana bites in reply, and Gwen thrills, arching into the brief pain—and Morgana is inside her, two fingers deep and easy, just enough to drive Gwen mad. She babbles—she'll never know what about: Morgana, perhaps, and her smile, and the smug familiarity of her touch as she drives Gwen wild, drives her to the brink and keeps her there, aching, desperate, cracked into a hundred shards like some oil pot which only Morgana knows how to break apart or piece together—and lets herself fall into pure sensation. Her body moves without her command, undulating, begging without words. Morgana needs no words. She is an expert on Gwen's body, though she moves too fast for finesse, and the noise Gwen makes when Morgana brushes a thumb over the nub of tightly gathered nerves is covered by a fresh crash of thunder from the skies. Morgana curls her fingers, and Gwen whines; she drags her tongue slow across Gwen's swollen nipple, working her thumb in tight, concentric circles, and Gwen moans, out of breath. Gwen has one hand fisted in the sheets above her head, anchoring her to the earth, but she reaches out with the other, digging her fingers into the small of Morgana's back, slipping a little in the sweat. Another tender bite—another clever twist of Morgana's wrist—and Gwen is gone with a cry, battered in the dark by winds as sweet as they are terrible.

Morgana rears up, her tangled hair a true mane, and Gwen sees the wildness in her eyes.

“Come here,” Gwen croaks, shaking still from the storm inside her, and cups her hands over the unmarred roundness of Morgana's hips. The smile Morgana gives is cunning; she moves at Gwen's urging but turns herself around, nimble as a desert fox, until her knees bracket Gwen's shoulders and she can lean forward to lay a kiss at the top of the curled hair between Gwen's legs. 

Gwen trembles, but she pulls Morgana's hips closer to her, stretching up as much as she is able for an eager taste. Morgana smells like no one else: of amber dusk cut through with a sharpness not unlike myrrh, and Gwen is greedy for it, licking as deeply as she can. Like this, she cares nothing for how she looks or what the neighbors might believe, for the world exists only here, in the slick caught on her teeth and running down her chin. There is nothing but the slide of Morgana's tongue against her, just barely rough as it drags again, and again, in quick strokes over her most sacred spaces until her thighs shake. There's no way for Gwen to tell where she stops and Morgana begins: they have joined themselves inextricably together, moving as one, their ragged groans in harmony, their very shudderings synchronized. Gwen pushes, seeking, her hands so tight on Morgana's skin they might have left bruises if Morgana were any normal woman, and _feels_ Morgana's cry rocking through her, feels the spasms on her tongue, and that's—in the end, that's all it takes for her to fall again into the dark.

~

She feels washed clean, after, as if she'd been laid at the bottom of the river as it flooded its banks. She can smell Morgana on her fingers, taste Morgana on her lips; the flavor lies heavy on her tongue and the back of her mouth. Next to her, Morgana stretches, lengthening each limb until she slumps down again with a satisfied smile, crawling over Gwen for a tender kiss. Gwen strokes her fingers over Morgana's hair—silky still, despite the tangles—and lets her hand stray down over the ridge of Morgana's back, holding her in a loose embrace.

Morgana curls around her easily, one palm laid over Gwen's heart, and they sleep.


End file.
